


Opheliac

by Sjukdom



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Songfic, gobblepotweek2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sjukdom/pseuds/Sjukdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was another man, the only one in Gotham, whom Oswald would be glad to play to, but he would never listen.<br/>***<br/>Written for Gobblepot Week 2015: Day 1 - Favorite Scene (Oswald playing the piano)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opheliac

**Author's Note:**

> The epigraph is taken from the chorus of Emilie Autumn's song "Opheliac".  
> English is not my native language, so feel free to tell me about any mistakes :)

_I'm gonna blame it on you_  
It's not the way I want to be  
I only hope that in the end you will see  
It's the Opheliac in me 

Oswald sat on the small stage of the club under too bright white spotlights, feeling their heat. He shadows, cost by the spotlights were too sharp and his face looked like a wax mask with deep black eye-sockets and narrow scar of the mouth. A number of people was in the hall beyond, paying him no attention and Oswald felt like he was utterly alone here. In front of him stood the piano, light caught by its varnished surface, with keys white as polished bones. Oswald touched one of them, producing a low sound, trying to remember how to play. The air in the club was dry, dust, floating in it, was clearly visible in beams of the spotlights. Oswald glanced at the people, sitting not far from the stage, and made the first chord, sounding as lonely as he was.

In his childhood, when he studied to play the piano, he needed audience to play to – his mother, of course, was always there, clapping and smiling at him, who kissed him when he finished. He grew up, but this need was still there – he couldn't play alone, to no-one, it seemed to him like an awful waste of music. These types barely saw him and Oswald doubted that they were very fond of music. A music of guns, maybe. Oswald touched few other keys, moving his fingers slowly. Mother would be happy to hear him playing again, cheering him up enthusiastically like a faithful fan. 

There was another man, the only one in Gotham, whom Oswald would be glad to play to, but he would never listen. His silly cop, struggling alone with the whole city. Did he like music? Oswald never had the chance to know. Nobody of them had. Jim sized him up at once and would never try to dig a bit deeper – a bit strange for a cop, really. But that's how he was and Oswald would never be able to change him. It was not needed, anyway. Just one song, one evening, when Jim would be listening... 

Oswald looked around and now the hall was dark, lamps on the tables glowed softly and only one place was engaged. Jim sat there, smiling at him – he never smiled to Oswald before and every time he thought about this he felt a bitter taste in his mouth. But tonight was the night, Jim was here and Oswald smiled back at him. He felt the same tickling feeling he got every time he saw Jim, the growing erection, making him blush a little. Jim tried not to get too close to him, but Oswald knew how his body felt, how strong his hands were, how sweet was his smell, shampoo and shaving cream mixed with something fresh and mint-flavored. Imaginary Jim waved at him. Oswald wondered if he knew what he was thinking right now, if he knew about his nights he spent in his cold bed, stroking himself clumsily, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from groaning. Images of Jim flashed in his mind, accompanied by the knowing that he was the only one in the whole Gotham who helped him, who spared his life and he raised his hips towards his hand helplessly, wrapping wet with pre-cum fingers around his cock. The climax felt like liquid fire flowing through his veins. Would Jim be disgusted if he knew it?

“No”, said imaginary Jim from his place. He seemed too real – Oswald could see the rough texture of his coat and the pattern of his tie. Oswald smiled again, a little shyly, not daring to look him in the face.

“Stop that, I'm not even real”, laughed Jim and these words _hurt_. “Play now. Please.”

“As you wish”, whispered Oswald and this whisper echoed around like a sough of dead butterfly's wings. He put both hands on the keys, pressing them purposelessly at first sight, but then the sounds grew more content, weaving in the single melody. There were the gusts of wind behind his windows, the ringing silence of his empty flat and his own uneven breathing – everything he was experiencing without Jim being close. Jim in the hall listened silently, a light frown upon his brow. Oswald kept on playing and lamps in the hall went out one by one until there was only hot glow of the spotlights. 

Oswald stopped suddenly, breaking music off and clenching his fists. The illusion disappeared, leaving him more lonely than he was ever before. He closed the lid of the piano and stared at its glossy surface, hoping to catch the last glimpse of imaginary Jim, standing beside him to kiss him like mother did, but there was no-one there.


End file.
